


Haunted

by myglassesaredirty



Category: Brooklyn nine-nine
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Pregnant!Amy, mentions of the rest of the squad - Freeform, peraltiago are parents, there's a small amount of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 13:19:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12036723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myglassesaredirty/pseuds/myglassesaredirty
Summary: He remembers the nights without his family. And that scares him.





	Haunted

**Author's Note:**

> I began writing this before I learned of anything the cast or crew said about s5, so please just bear with me. And I understand that Jake's not as happy-go-lucky as he normally is, but this fic really doesn't work with that.

He can still remember the cold from prison.

He remembers curling into himself as he burrowed in his bed, desperately trying to stay hidden from his cellmate.

He remembers the despair whenever he thought of Holt, or Charles, or Terry, or Gina, or Amy. Especially Amy.

He remembers learning how to cry quietly, learning how to become invisible to not just his cellmate, but the rest of the prison. He remembers the hopeless nights and days as the Nine-Nine worked tirelessly to free him and Rosa from jail.

But he most remembers the cold. The cold that creeps into his chest still, the cold that rises up out of nowhere as it chokes him, the cold that radiates off the walls of abandoned buildings.

Amy tries to help.

She does, and Jake has to give her that. She took over an arrest without question when he had an anxiety attack. When she hears him choke in fear in the middle of the night, she immediately wakes up and pulls him into her arms, holding him until he calms down. When she heard him having a panic attack in the shower, she stayed outside the door and gently talked him through it.

But they still come, even seven years later. And he doesn’t want to burden her with that.

He hasn’t slept for the past three days. Granted, having two children tends to derail his normal sleep schedule, so maybe he’s just waiting for either Aaron or Lindsey to come bouncing into his room with some problem or another.

Nope, that isn’t it.

He knows it’s just horrid memories of punching the living daylights out of his cellmate just so he could avoid the creep, he knows it’s because he was wrongly accused of a crime he didn’t commit, he knows it’s because he couldn’t speak to a single person he loved.

Amy stirs, and he quickly shuts his eyes. “Jake?” she murmurs, rolling over.

“Hm?” he grunts out, perfectly pulling off the sleep voice.

She sighs and props herself on her elbow, reaching out and brushing his hair with her fingers. “Why won’t you let me help you?”

Now it’s his turn to sigh. “I don’t know, Ames.” And that’s the truth. He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know why he refuses help from anyone except Rosa, why he still feels like crap around his kids even though they’ve proven time and again that they love him, why he feels a choking panic seize him whenever he sets foot in an abandoned building. He just.

He doesn’t know.

He sits up, arching his back. Amy takes the opportunity to rest her forearms and chin on his shoulder.

“Would you feel better if we watched Die Hard?”

He smiles at the sleepiness in her voice as he reaches up and brushes her fingers with his. “I don’t think that’s a good movie for kids, hon,” he whispers.

“Mm.” She gently kisses his shoulder. “I suppose you’re right.”

Silence settles between them, and it’s as heavy as his days in the prison.

He breathes in sharply at the sudden and unwelcome memory, scrambling away from Amy. She watches in shock as he throws up on the floor, bile burning the back of his throat.

He feels her hand on his shoulder, and he lifts his own to wave her off, to push her away. She doesn’t listen. He tries to use force, physically pushing her hand off his back, but she immediately replaces it.

When the vomiting subsides, he chokes out a sob, and Amy’s pulling him back into her. He’s crying and she’s crying, and he hasn’t felt so helpless in years.

It takes a while, but they finally compose themselves. Amy hurriedly wipes tears from her cheeks. “Jake,” she says firmly, “how can I help you?”

He wants her help, but he doesn’t know what “help” is. Instead, he just holds up a hand, sniffles, and says, unconvincingly, “I’m fine.”

It’s the worst lie he’s ever told.

X-X-X-X-X

Sometimes he slips into his children’s rooms to remind himself that life does get better.

He leans against Lindsey’s doorframe. She’s nestled under the covers, holding a stuffed elephant in her arms. And she’s safe.

That’s the most important part.

She’s safe, and she always will be.

She’s safe, and no one will be able to tear him away from his daughter again.

She’s safe, and no one can change that.

Lindsey stirs, and Jake moves to allow a little more light into the room so that he won’t scare her. “Daddy?” she murmurs, rubbing her eye with her fist.

He smiles. “Yeah, sweetie, it’s me.”

She nods and collapses back against her pillow. “Sing me a lullaby.”

Jake smiles a bit wider and crosses the room to sit on her bed. “You were sleeping pretty soundly just a minute ago.”

Lindsey looks at him with sleep-filled eyes. “I don’t need it, Daddy, you do.”

It’s an innocent statement, a significant statement, one that he’s not entirely sure she realizes the significance of.

He hasn’t slept for three days, memories spinning through his mind and slamming against the forefront of his skull. The stress is threatening to drown him, and here’s his seven-year-old daughter, who takes this situation and in her innocence and naivety, offers a solution.

He reaches out to smooth her wild hair away from her face. “Alright. You choose.”

Lindsey smiles and nestles into her bed, pulling the pink covers up to her chin. “Sing ‘If Only,’ Daddy.”

He nods and tucks her elephant’s nose under the covers. His voice is soft as he sings, “If only, if only, the woodpecker sighs, the bark on the trees was as soft as the skies. While the wolf waits below, hungry and lonely, he cries to the moon, if only, if only.”

Lindsey nods emphatically. “’member that, Daddy.”

He smiles and kisses her forehead. “I will, sweetheart.”

As he leaves her room, softly shutting the door, he repeats the lullaby to himself.

It’s past two o’clock, and the silver moonlight shines through the windows. He walks softly back to his and Amy’s room, and for the first time in three nights, he’s tired.

When he gets into bed, he falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow. He has no nightmares. And when he wakes up, he’s more ready for work than he’s been in the last eight years.

X-X-X-X-X

Amy hates being pregnant.

It’s always been a fact, even since their first. In fact, he would venture to say, especially with their first.

She’s pouting at the desk across from him when Holt comes up and assigns Jake a major case.

Jake whoops triumphantly as Amy groans. “But, sir,” she says, turning in her chair, “why can’t I go with him? I’ll be careful!”

Holt looks to Jake, and Jake shakes his head faintly. Truthfully, he knows Holt wouldn’t put Amy out in the field for anything; there’s too much risk involved.

Holt shrugs. “You’re pregnant. This is a major drug ring we’re trying to take down, and if things go south, I don’t want you getting caught in the crossfires.” He pauses for a moment, mentally consulting himself. “No, Santiago, you stay here.”

Amy turns back around, her arms crossed as she mumbles under her breath about stupid drug ring leaders not possessing the decency to not shoot a pregnant cop. After a moment, her face lights up, and she jumps out of her seat to chase down Holt. “Sir, sir!” When he turns and raises an eyebrow, she blurts, “I’m only three months pregnant.”

Jake takes that as his cue to enter the discussion. “Amy, something bad could happen. I mean, these guys aren’t just drug dealers, they’re murderers and thieves. Besides, you love paperwork.”

Holt glances at Jake before turning his attention back to Amy. “Peralta’s right, Santiago. You stay here.”

“But the vest can fit over my stomach –”

“You. Stay. Here.” His words are firm, and Amy shrinks back a little.

“Yes, sir,” she says meekly, tucking her hair behind her ear. She returns to her seat, and Jake reaches for her hand.

“I’ll be safe,” he promises.

X-X-X-X-X

The storage room is dark, and he squints, looking for the criminal. The lightbulbs are few and far between, and he can feel himself becoming antsy. Something’s wrong, and he can feel it in his bones.

A shuffling sound comes from behind some boxes, and he holds his breath, quietly stalking in the direction of the noise. He hears the sound of a gun being fired, and he dives to the ground, his chin hitting the floor. There’s a fiery pain in his left shoulder, and he hisses through his teeth, trying to ignore it. He rolls onto his back, gun aimed to fire, but no one is around.

That’s not right.

He forces himself to his feet, minimizing movement of his left shoulder. The room seems darker somehow, and he listens intently for any indication to the criminal’s movements.

He’s standing, his gun pointing toward the ground, breathing quietly, when he feels it:

Cool metal pressing into the back of his head.

His panic almost makes him forget the pain of being shot, but the choking fear is muddling his thoughts. He lifts his hands in surrender, not wanting to turn around.

“Ich wollte schon immer einen Polizisten töten.”

Jake racks his brain in an attempt to figure out what the perp is trying to say.

“Auf dem Boden.”

When Jake does nothing, he feels the barrel of the gun digging into his skull.

“Jetzt!”

Not knowing what else to do, Jake slowly lowers himself to the ground.

“Gut.” The drug dealer walks around to face him, not letting the gun move from Jake’s periphery. Once he’s in front of him, he points the gun at Jake’s forehead. “Jetzt werde ich dich töten.”

Jake’s still being held at gunpoint, his hands are still up in the air, but he can’t help but say, “Dude, you’re going to have to speak English if you want me to understand your evil plan.”

The criminal blinks. “Oh.”

There’s no one coming for Jake. Rosa and Charles are working a different case, and Amy can’t come save him this time. He’s on his own, and he’s going to have to get out of this on his own.

The gun presses into his skin, and the man – Jake has taken to calling him Hans – speaks again. “I’m going to kill you.”

Years ago, Jake would have been practically giddy with his own John McClane and Die Hard experiences. Now, his heart is beating in his throat, his lungs aren’t gathering any air, and his hands feel clammy.

Another gun fires, and Jake flinches, scrambling backwards away from the criminal who was holding him at gunpoint mere seconds ago. Hans is howling in pain, but he lifts his hand. Before he can do anything, Jake’s instincts react before his mind can, and Hans is lying dead on the ground.

Terry is standing stone-faced, and he looks to Jake. His shirt is bled through, his shoulder is on fire, and he can’t unsee the deed he just committed.

“I killed him,” Jake mutters. His eyes are trained on the body on the ground, but he all he can see is the unnatural jerk of Hans’ body as the bullet rips through his stomach.

Terry puts his hand on his good shoulder. “You did what you had to do, Jake. That’s all any of us can ask of you.”

Jake nods slowly and turns to leave. Some part of him tells him to check his watch, and he faintly makes out the numbers in the darkness of the room.

“I missed dinner with my family,” he mentions to Terry.

X-X-X-X-X

It’s past eleven o’clock at night when Jake finally walks into his home. The night is dark outside, the hallway leading to the kitchen is lit by only one small nightlight, and his brain feels too heavy for something that’s so light.

Amy steps out from behind the counter when he walks into the kitchen. He looks at her and swallows, training his eyes to the floor. He shuffles to the table, pulling out a chair and sitting in it.

She walks over to him and runs her fingers through his hair. “What is it, Jake?”

He sighs heavily. “I’m scared,” he admits.

That’s really the truth of the matter, the truth that has existed since he was imprisoned. It’s the reason he has refused to seek help, the reason fewer jokes leave his lips, the reason that there’s sadness lying behind the humor in his eyes. It’s why he can’t sleep at night, why he makes late night treks to his children’s rooms, why he’s stopped watching Die Hard and similar movies. It’s real, and it’s significant, and all he wants to do right now is cry.

Amy must be able to tell because she tries to offer him a smile before pulling him towards her. He buries his head in her shirt, and her fingers trace the bottom of his hairline.

“That’s okay,” she whispers.

And, maybe, he listens. Maybe he lets those words offer him a hope he hasn’t otherwise had, and maybe he lets it become his mantra. It’s okay to be scared; he’s a police officer, and he can be killed at any moment in time. This job can cause him to leave his children fatherless. It can lead to a situation which woul leave his friends with an aching hole in their chests that was once made for Jake. It can theoretically be the reason behind Amy’s tears as she remembers nights when he was lying in the bed next to her.

It’s okay to not be okay, he decides. It’s okay to admit weakness.

That truth is a stark contrast to what he’s believed his entire life, to the standard he’s held himself to. He pulls away from Amy, looks her in the eyes, and says, “I’m ready to talk.”

She takes his hand and squeezes it. “Okay,” she says, pulling out a chair. She clasps both of his hands in hers, and they talk until the sun begins to rise.

**Author's Note:**

> I am learning German (I could speak to a toddler in that language), so if any native/fluent German speakers are reading this, I apologize if the grammar is terrible. Google Translate isn't often reliable, but, you know.


End file.
